


One Last Laugh Track

by splittingsunlight



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Abstract, Depression, Divine Comedy AU, Drabble, Human Aziraphale (Good Omens), I wrote this as a gift I guess?, Implied/Referenced Suicide, One Shot, Songfic, Suicide, idk I kinda pump these out and don't really think about them twice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 16:40:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20877368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/splittingsunlight/pseuds/splittingsunlight
Summary: Would writing even do anything, Aziraphale wondered, face unmoving in that moment. There's nothing to be accomplished by leaking thoughts onto a page for some sorry soul to find once the show is over. He doesn't get why anyone leaves notes to be quite honest. It was a mystery to him, a self-made secrecy unboxed and flayed out for the world to judge.___Okay so this is a tiny little abstract oneshot I did based on azulytoons (Instagram) Divine Comedy Au comic! Please please go read it it's amazing and the art is spectacular!!!! Be careful though, it does have graphic content and themes of suicide / death.This fic also explores suicide bit it is very vague and not explicitly described - exercise caution when reading!Stay safe my lovelies and know that I am here to talk to you all of you don't feel safe in any way - my Instagram is splittingsunlight please don't be afraid to message me <3





	One Last Laugh Track

**Author's Note:**

> One last time ladz this is a sad fic please be careful! 
> 
> It's mostly just expressive prose than actual story but hey writing is writing. Also no editing we die like men.
> 
> Title inspired by La Dispute, content also inspired by La Dispute and Azulytoons on Instagram. I really suggest reading the comic itself if you want to get a better understanding of this fic!

Tuesday evening, the outside world succumbed to the veil of night while cars tread asphalt, people venturing home from jobs and chores and life as it goes. 

Aziraphale sat, staring at the pen and journal laid out before him, on the kitchen table.

There's nothing left within him. No more space for jokes and jests. There is enough space, however, for one loud and constant thought for the final curtain call. 

So he sat. He sat and stared at the empty page where he wanted to write one last letter - one last attempt to make sense of everything. The thing is though, there's no one to write to. Or at least that's what Aziraphale thought. 

Would writing even do anything, Aziraphale wondered, face unmoving in that moment. There's nothing to be accomplished by leaking thoughts onto a page for some sorry soul to find once the show is over. He doesn't get why anyone leaves notes to be quite honest. It was a mystery to him, a self-made secrecy unboxed and flayed out for the world to judge. 

Why would you want to unravel those stories and struggles and the undercurrent of pain in everyday life? 

The page was soiled by two heavy tears as Aziraphale heaved at his own thoughts, vision getting blurred more and more by the minute as he tried to pinpoint the moment in life where that pain stopped being an undercurrent - becoming life itself. 

Has there ever been a difference between them at all?

There was no way to know, no way at all.

A letter, he supposed, was just one last desperate plea, one last verse to sing. Or one last laugh track to accompany his comedy? 

Aziraphale knew he'd been losing it completely these last few weeks, losing sanity. But never fading, was the unerring thought that maybe it was all fabricated, fashioned from some script written so long ago that he hadn't thought to change. It's so hard to tell when the act takes over. Or if it's everyone around him that's acting; movements as stage directions, change being but a beat in the scene. 

Aziraphale left the table, pen and tear stained journal remain where they were, abandoned. 

It's Tuesday evening and the world beyond his apartment stumbles forward interminably, and there's a sort of humming coming up through the window from outside. The thrumming of life as is continues steadfast forward, and Aziraphale can't help but feel drawn to it.

But why, why then couldn't he seem to harmonize with it? 

The rest of the world didn't have space for him, and he'd never been able to make that room by himself. Life was always flying by but he could never quite seem to follow along.

On the floor of the bathroom now, Aziraphale sat. Everything was blurred again, but he didn't bother to wipe the tears away. All while the bathroom lights became distorted, refracted, pushed through the orange of the pillbox he poured in his palm. 

It fell to the floor and Aziraphale smiled as plastic met tile, thinking how the reverberating sound was a little like the humming coming from outside. 

The problem here is that not many seem to hear the humming, thrumming of the world around them. So what happens then, to those who can hear it? Those who seem to hear it end up tortured when they fail to find a way to follow along.

When Aziraphale tries, it all starts collapsing. 

So now he is fumbling towards the final curtain call on a comedy that no one wants to happen, that no one will clap for at all, but still has to be. 

….

Crowley knew he knocked the table over because, despite his haste, he watched the jar break. 

(Now glass shards shared space with bent pages and forgotten pens)

It had been weeks, months now, of trying to repair it every single stupid day. But no matter what, the cracks still showed in spite of how well he thought he'd put it back together. He held shards between damaged fingers, too desperate to discard any fragment.

He doesn't think he could ever decide to let it die. 

To let it go.


End file.
